


Human(e) Theory

by Nolfalvrel



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Adult!Gavin and RK900, Alternate Universe, Android Trafficking, Canon-Typical Violence, Cause North and Connor are his new life, Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings, Connor whump, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Multi, North and Connor are also siblings, Protective Hank Anderson, Protective Upgraded Connor | RK900, RK1000 - Freeform, RK900 is Gavin’s partner in every connotation, Teen!Androids (that can upgrade to adults eventually), Teen!Jericho Crew, high school shenanigans, oh and for good measure in case you were doubting it, protective north, rk1k - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-06-25 07:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15636024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nolfalvrel/pseuds/Nolfalvrel
Summary: ***Updated Summary***Markus has only just met Connor but he knows. He knows that there’s something to them, between them, and he desperately needs to figure out what it is.He just needs to talk to him first.North is determined not to make that easy. So is everyone else in Connor’s family, including a trigger happy police Lieutenant named Hank Anderson and Nines, the Terminator! James Bond nobody asked for.Gavin is pretty alright though. So is Sumo.“I’m rooting for you toaster. I want to see your weird iHuman babies, all freckled and heterochromatic and shit.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: Updated summary to give a better summary of the intended plot now that I know what my intentions are!
> 
> \--------
> 
> So as a preface, I'm not 100% sure where this is going but I know it will have action and emotion but there will also (potentially) be some high school tomfoolery. Depending on traction I may end up converting these musings into another fic/AU.
> 
> North and Connor are both younger versions of themselves in their teens along with the rest of the Jericho crew, but their bodies have the ability to grow and expand, upgrading them to adulthood. This is mentioned but will not happen for some time, as I want to focus on them being younger but dealing with trauma/drama. RK900 however is an adult, along with Gavin Reed.
> 
> I also wanted to preface that Connor does have some social/relationship building issues-- it may cross into the autistic spectrum but I am by no means enough of an expert to make that distinction, so please let me know if I need to update tags!

Sometimes North just wants to float away.

Laying there, atop the crumbling tiles of the roof that slanted over her bedroom window, she dreams about gravity letting her go and space sucking her up into that big ocean of stars. 

She knows space is cold and dauntless and empty but she feels even the huge vacuum of sky can’t contend with the bottomless depths of her brain. Knows that if space is subzero then the thoughts that seep from her head are from scale of freezing yet unmeasured. Arms spread wide, she thinks about how she’d stabbed her icy pick into Connor that day. 

It’s always Connor. Connor with his freckled constellations and a smile so big it droops to the side as though sliding off his face.

_“Did you want to come with me to walk Sumo, North?”_

Biting her lip she digs fingernails into palms until blue begins to crest forth— it doesn’t take long with the crust of old scabs weaker than her skin. 

_“Don’t you mean to walk you, you bitch?”_

The reaction was inexcusable. But she could have played it off as a joke. Connor misses a lot of things but he seems to realize that North has a distinct sense of humour. It helps her get away with a lot around him.

_“No… I meant to say it would be nice if we walke—”_

_“I got it, Connor. I’m not stupid. That’s_ you. _Jeez, for once can you just get a clue?”_

_“I’m sorr—“_

_“Like right now, as in you clue in and fuck off?”_

“Fuck,” North moans. She hadn’t meant it. Never to Connor. But sometimes the hate just came in a cyclone and it tore through her thoughts, ripping through the common sense and tact Hank had made such efforts to make homes for and leaving just the nasty, bitter earth of her. 

Today had been a bad day. That wasn't Connor’s fault. It wasn't his, or Hank’s even though he’d made her take the stupid summer program for “social adaptation”. Maybe make some friends for once.

Neither of them know that she’d worn her shortest skirt with purpose as she walked into that cramped mobile classroom, eyelashes curled black with mascara, lips plumped from a vigorous scrub. Mr. Boris hadn’t even hesitated to take her in, one long, leering pass up and down. The canary had all but climbed into the cat’s mouth as she purred, “Do I have something on my shirt?”

His pupils came down to her cleavage like her words dragged them. She never asked them to linger.

Sick. 

Mr. Boris is a sick and vile man, and she’d known but today had been the proof. 

At sixteen years North is a knockout. She was designed that way by an accomplished team of artists handpicked from France, Germany and US of A’s good old California (the believed American centre of culture). Her nose is thin with a curled tip, eyes large and slightly almond shaped, hair polished penny red. Her lips are painted in a kaleidoscope of pinks. Her waist tucks in between her shoulders and hips in perfect silhouette. She is lithe and long legged, but not tall enough to intimidate. Model like, but for Playboy not Milan. Meant for looking and touching.

She’d run home screaming silently, feigning illness when the ( _sick, sick_ , sick) instructor noticed the sweat beading over her, the pants starting to shake her chest. Door closed, music on, shower running she’d let everything in her pour down the drain with the water. Washing her emotion away.  
Hours later, when she was bundled under every blanket imaginable, Connor had come rapping at her door.

_“Don’t you mean to walk you, you bitch?”_

Her brother isn’t like her. Not in looks though he is also beautiful, with curly chestnut hair and eyes and a jaw cut sharp as glass, pale under what must be a million bronze moles. He came from a different place with a different purpose. What makes him so completely opposite though is that he never has to bury emotions. Instead, for all the that he emotes hurt and laughter, there is a hundred foot thick wall of cement between Connor and the outside world. Wherever he’d come from, it was a place where he was never meant to feel.

Something like this will have him spiralling— rejection from people is something Connor regularly faces down. Rejection from North is uncharted, even if she snaps often enough for him to have a hazy map.

Lights flash below her, a sharp beep and grunt— Hank is home. She breaths easier with that. 

Hank meant safety and solutions. She sits up and watches him slouch up the pavement, cursing as he drops his keys a few times before managing to slam through the door. North smiles. 

“Home!” Hank calls, as if the clatter of his entrance isn’t announcement enough. “North, Connor, you guys here I’m fricking starving!” His voice begins to muffle as he moves further into the house and North slides inside, eager to meet him. She nervously checks for her brother as she rounds the stairs to the kitchen, but smiles as she spots only Hank.

“Hey grandpa, I see they decided to send misery home early tonight,” She teases, arms tucked behind her.

Hank scrubs his beard as he peers into the fridge, not even looking at her as he retorts, “Well what can I say, Fowler knows what masochists you little freaks are.” He fixes her with a pointed look then as he closes the fridge, empty-handed. “You do any cooking today?”

She shakes her head ‘no’. He frowns. “Well you left the stove on.”

“Wasn’t me.” The ‘V’ of his eyebrows deepens.

“Well it wasn’t me. The house would be gone by now.” A scary thought. Losing the home would be losing the only place she had known comfort. Two levels and a basement stuffed with mismatched furniture (literally every light fixture was different, not to mention the menagerie of wood finishes), post it notes and dog fur. The duplex is mangy like an old dog too, but just as lovable. North would let it go kicking and screaming. 

She shrugs. “Guess it was Connor then.” 

“That’s not like him, the stupid kid. Hey Connor! Connor!” Hank leans round the bend to yell up the stairs and North has to consciously put distance between them when her heart starts up a marathon. So proximity is going to be an issue tonight. She cringes, thinking of how she wants nothing more than for Hank’s arms to swallow her up in warmth. “Connor, get your ass down here you left the stove on!” He waits a moment then turns to North, exasperated. “Can you go get him please? If I go up those stairs I’m going to bed and I’m frickin’ too hungry to get a good night out of that.”

“Um…”

“What?”

“About that…”

“What? Did you two fight?” 

North doesn’t meet his eyes as she rubs her arm, feeling the loose threads of her fuzzy sweater. “I was hoping to talk to you about it, first. It wasn’t—it wasn’t good. O-or his fault.” His eyes bore into her and for a moment North wishes Hank could interface with her, pluck the memories as easily from her mind as he is probably wishing. She’s dreading reliving that moment. 

_“Don’t you mean to walk you, you bitch?”_

**_“You bitch?”_ **

She’d just wanted to get away. She hopes her eyes convey that as Hank’s jaw tenses and his face scrunches in exhaustion. “Thank God it’s fricking Friday tomorrow,” He mutters as he kicks off worn casual boots, climbing noisily. North bites her lip, left alone. She wanders to the kitchen, back to the fridge closed in disappointment, wondering if she can find something appetizing enough for Hank.

The shelves are practically empty, some stray yogurts, milk and and assortment of old ketchup and mustard bottles cluttering the corners. There’s maybe half a tray of tiramisu hardening on the second shelf. Irritation flashes through her at the lack of options—Hank is amazing, but with long hours he sometimes leaves these kinds of things to them— before she realizes the reason for vacancy isn’t Connor as she assumed. Today she was on grocery duty, having promised her boys to hit the store on her way back from the train. Hank must’ve known but said nothing.

Connor too— might have even been part of the reason for him to come knocking, other than the pureness of his too good heart. Another reason to slip back into that pool of self-loathing. Connor might not have been built to process emotion but he sure has a lot of consideration in spite of it. 

North is just all spite.

Hank’s descent is significantly more rapid, drawing her attention. He grips the banister knuckle-white as he barks. 

“Did he go out today?”

“I don’t know. He’s not upstairs?” Hank shakes his head and swears, making his way down and whipping out his phone. “Wait— he said earlier that he’d walk Sumo.”

“When?”

“Around six, maybe?”

“Fuck, I noticed the damn dog wasn’t barking.” Cursing. A real, solid one. 

All the ice inside North is gone, thawed by fear. It starts a slow boil in her blood as she takes in the panic on Hank’s face. He tries to smother it as he checks for messages, then starts a call as he wanders through the kitchen, the living room and then to the basement.

It doesn’t connect. She hears the track of voicemail as Hank thunders back up in a rush. Outside through a flimsy screen door to the back and then back inside, fruitless. Bubbles begin to burst beneath her skin, stomach frothing over. Hank drinks her in as his fingers run through silver locks, eyes gluing to her right temple and he makes an effort to calm her. “He wouldn’t run away over something like that North. He’s probably nearby or on his way back now. I just—I just want to know he doesn’t need a ride.” Doesn’t need help. Doesn’t need saving. Those thoughts remain unspoken but not unknown between them. “I’m going to call Reed, maybe he’s with Nines.”

North is already digging out her cell. “I’ll try calling him again maybe it’s just poor connection.” After a moment, she rasps out, “I don’t know if he’d take an ACOM from me right now, but I’ll try that too.” 

No matter the circumstance, Connor would probably be thrilled to speak to her via neural link. She’s practically the only one who does it with him, and reaching out that way would be a sure indicator to Connor that he’s been forgiven for whatever line he’d stumbled across. 

“Hey Gavin, yeah I know it’s late, it’s just—is Connor there with you?”

That’s how Connor approaches everything— that he’s intruding or an inconvenience. Like he’s a too big fish in a little pond. Like there isn’t enough space in the world for his problems when it’s already cramped with everyone else’s.

“No, no he’s not but hopefully just wandering the park, you know him. Just let me know if he turns up, alright?”

Like Connor needs to apologize for existing. 

“No don't tell him that-- fine. Shit if I care. Yeah. Thanks anyway.”

Both calls, mobile and ACOM, ring no-answer but she’s rushing to the door before the notification flashes across her HUD that Connor is offline. 

“North—“

Against the wall piles shoes of all shapes and sizes— Hank’s enormous loafers, North’s assortment of flats and Connor’s neatly arranged sneakers. She opts for her brother’s rain boots, floppy black rubber, before stuffing herself in one of Hank’s coats. 

“North wait—“ She books into the summer night and a still street. She makes it halfway down the block before she realizes she has no idea what she’s doing, where’s she’s going. Only that there is a crushing urge for her to hold Connor right now. A gasp rips free from her throat at the hand on her arm and it’s Hank, just Hank, rasping heavily and concerned. “North Goddammit! Where the Hell do you think you’re going?”

“We need to find Connor.”

“No shit, you don’t say!” His hand grips tighter around North’s upper arm as she tries to pull away.

“Yeah well then obviously I’m fucking looking for him.”

“Oh yeah? Looking where? Where are you starting North, huh? Tell me, is it the park, the cinema, the school? That old pet store he got stuck at last week? You can’t just go running off you have to fucking _communicate_ or we’re going to have a larger problem.” Hank releases her to pinch his nose tiredly. “I can’t deal with having two kids MIA right now. We don’t even know if Connor is in trouble, we have to take this real careful, okay?”

“But…”

“Ah ah,” He silences her opening mouth, flapping a hand about as if to fan off unspoken thoughts. “Carefully, not slowly. Now walk me through what happened so I can figure out how deep in shit he’s gone.”

Between all three of them Hank is surprisingly the best one at handling his emotions. Usually that sits fine with North as maladaptivity forces people to leave her alone. It’s the kind of ugly in beauty people prefer to ignore, like litter or homeless in a park. Right now she wishes for a sliver of Hank’s composure as she explains quickly how she’d come home in a (bad) mood, which causes his eyes to tighten though he says nothing. It’s a pin he’ll loop back to when his missing son isn’t demanding his attention. She runs through the conversation perfectly though she doesn’t bother to play the recording back for him, knowing he hates how mechanical it sounds. Hank hates to think that they can relive every moment of their experiences, particularly the bad. He’s seen a lot of sickos working the blue force, and he’s seen what happens when processors are ground down to keep memories on repeat.

“Okay here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to stick with me but open your GPS and put that thing on blast— but only when we get out of our neighbourhood alright? We’re going to try the park and then the marina, and if that doesn’t work we’ll try the precinct. But if he has Sumo I doubt he got very far.”

“Alright, that sounds… that sounds like a good start. Let’s do that.” North chews her lip trying to think of anywhere else or anyone else Connor would run to, letting Hank guide her back to their driveway. The list is shorter for people than places, which maybe says a lot about how their family works. Connor’s boots nearly slip off as she clambers into the passenger seat messily, heart still knocking against her chest with urgency. 

Hank’s car is a dingy box manufactured before the turn of the century and for all his efforts to keep it clean (feet off the dash, no eating and what comes in goes out) North jokes that the vehicle is still trash on wheels. Connor loves to chirp out the make and model down to the VIN number whenever anyone sneers an ask about where they’d picked it up. A classic 1978 Holden HZ Premier in dusky grey. Her brother actually uses ‘classic’ over ‘fossil’. North tends to agree with the onlookers. It definitely feels like a relic when they’re coasting, even with Hank guiding the wheels. Self-driving just has a way of sophistication.

The growl the Holden bellows offers a lot more comfort than the _ding!_ of a Crowne though, especially when she knows that Hank controls the meter in addition to patched-in sirens. 

When they round the corner from their cul-de-sac and blaze past the stop sign North opens her connection to the extranet and bludgeons the network with her location. The night is dark, and soon even with the blue-red lights, they blend into it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I rewrote this ten million times over and I'm exhausted so just going to post. I know I left a bit of a red herring since the tags say Android Trafficking and it will definitely become a thing but not right away. Instead we are going to develop some relationships first since I have finally decided where I need this work to go.
> 
> Also! Couple pointers-- as adults Markus is 6'2 (Jessie Williams height) and Connor is 6'0 (Bryan Dechart's height) however since they are still growing, Markus will be 5'10 and Connor 5'7 as teens, with Simon and Josh falling inbetween once I tackle them. North has already reached her 5'5 stature :).

The night is dark and full of monsters.

The worst one sniffles on the doorstep to the mansion, letting the wet heat of Detroit air swoop into the foyer and roost in the carpet, dampening the wood panels of the walls. His hair is soaked with humidity, face and clothes painted in sweat. His skin is sallow, eyes hooped by purple, and his back curves under some mysterious weight. 

A stranger might confuse it for shame. Markus knows it is withdrawal.

A shaking, dripping man, his brother Leo does not wear his sobriety well.

“You’re out,” is all Markus can think to say, only he doesn’t really think. Instead the words slip out in a blunder as his eyes grow wide and his hold tightens on the door.

“I see you’re still answering the damn door. The old man just wanna’ pull one off on me, is that what that whole fuckin’ show was about?” Leo scowls, palms spreading to the sky in the universal gesture of ‘ _why me_ ’. It’s a remarkably human gesture for someone who really can’t be human at all. Just an imposter wearing pink flesh, slipping on a smile here, a frown there. From a distance the facade does the trick, but get real close and the teeth start to poke out, sharp and nasty. Markus gets a face full of them when he attempts to close the door and those hands clamp round the frame and the handle and push. “The fuck you think you’re doing, ‘Wires’?”

“You can’t be here.” Markus’ teeth are white and straight and perfect, but the words he spits from between them are acerbic. He struggles against Leo, gaining on the man’s reedy arms. _“Leave.”_

“And who the fuck says I can’t? You? I know you don’t have any balls ‘Wires’ but I sure as Hell thought you were supposed to have some kind of brain.”

“Leave, Leo.” 

“C’mon you can’t be this fucking stupid. He’s going to get bored of you soon. He did it to my mom, he did it to me, and he’s already had a few years of you. How many days left until he’s got his damn money’s worth?”

If anything the insinuation is enough for Markus to scrunch down and heave Leo back, nearly shutting the man out, expelling him back into the darkness and out of his family’s life maybe for good. Monsters can play dirty however, and seconds before the lock clicks shut Leo cries, “Carl!”

Somehow, their father appears like a lightning crack, voice booming thunder as he wheels himself to the foyer. “What’s going on?” 

Then he pieces things together. “Markus, let him inside.”

A hairs breadth from success, he allows Leo to push through in resignation. The man stumbles into the entryway then falls to his knees before the wheelchair. From such slight vantage Carl still towers over his son, dignified in weathered skin imbued with an inked canvass, frail bones tucked into a velvet ruby blazer, shoulders proud.

Love is funny— once it’s tied it takes a lot to snap the string, no matter how it’s sawed at, stretched. Even when Carl himself had tried to hack it to pieces, cut at the ties to Leo with slicing words and a scorching fiery hate that just about drove him to a heart attack. It hung, tattered, between father and firstborn, thin as spider silk but ever so strong.

It’s hard to spy the emotion now when it’s so obscured by disappointment. Leo stares into the older man’s face, maybe for once taking in the scars of worry that lined the man’s eyes, the downturn of his mouth. Had there been a time when Carl smiled for Leo, about Leo? Were there wrinkles of laughter buried under the caverns of stress and exhaustion? 

“Hey Dad.” Leo sneers a bit, trying a warped smile, that nasty gremlin peeking through. Markus shuts the door, keeping back as Leo places a hand to a knee, heaving himself upright. “You look… good? Yeah I mean, you’ve been going to all your appointments and shit right? I was told that you’ve been out y’know… of the hospital. Yeah…”

Carl says nothing, warily tracking Leo in the same way one watches a starving beast eager to put food in its belly. He dares to flick a glance to Markus, giving a sharp jerk of his neck. _Get behind me._ He darts by Leo to stand behind Carl, a hand posed on his wheelchair. 

Leo notices this and visibly swallows words, clearing his throat of them. “Yeah that’s uh… it’s good to see you’re still able to get around. The hospital… actually funny thing, I just came from there a couple hours ago. Be cool if we’re going to the same one huh? But I guess with the court stuff they wouldn’t let that happen…”

“What are you doing here Leo?” Carl’s patience is not as enduring as his love. He spits the sentence even as he reaches a hand back to Markus, squeezing. While Leo rambles a response he mouths ‘ _Thomas’._ Markus picks it up from his peripheral vision, pupils trained on the man beginning to rock on his feet across from them. He grips his father’s shoulder in understanding, lashes flickering as he sends the ACOM.

“Well that’s the thing when I was in the hospital they kind of had some news for me. The psychoanalyst type lady had some pretty crazy things to say actually,” At this Leo crosses his arms, nodding his head in feigned puzzlement. He picks up speed. “About me, of course, but we already knew that I’m scrambled, but she said that maybe it’s fixable, maybe, because of you. And fuck wouldn’t that be a surprise, and I thought it’d be because you’d finally ditched that useless shithead—“

“Leo,” Carl warns. Markus brings his right hand to the other handle as Leo’s finger comes round on him, convicting.

“—Maybe come to some kind of senses but I see that somehow I’m the more sane one between the two of us.” He gestures to himself viciously. “Y’know I still can’t believe, I can’t, that you—you would sacrifice me just to protect that son of a bitch! Do you know what I dealt with? You thought sniffing ashes was bad how about being the thing people fucking put ‘em out on!” Leo shoves his hair back from his neck as he strides closer to Carl to present his mementos, puckered red rings. Markus’ neck pricks in sympathy as he backs them both up from the man. The raving man, burned and still burning with a hot, violent anger. Anger that sparked in the body when the soul extinguished years ago, a vicious heat eating away at anything that resembled humanity. 

Because a human couldn’t survive what Leo had. But the fire of rage and the numb fix of the monster could.

Markus wonders how long it will be before that flame gutters out too and maybe they’ll finally be left with only a husk. He feels bad for thinking it. Or maybe he feels bad because he knows should feel awful for it but doesn’t. He’s all for redemption but somewhere years ago Leo had walked across a line and refused to cross back over it. Instead he wandered further and further until it became a sloping, plunging path fuelled by an ironic wish for ascension. Chasing the arms of Mary Jane and Oxy and the coil of the Adder, then the kiss of a sweeter fling in Snow and Cristy, finally settling on the heady taste of ruby lips in Red Ice. Craving altitude while the weight of addiction dragged him down to depths so deep it became hard to tell if there ever had been a line at all. 

“I’m your flesh and blood, but I might as well be shit from the crapper to you! I did _nothing_ to deserve this!”

“No, you did,” Carl rebukes finally, interrupting loudly but then speaking slowly, quietly. Explaining as though to a child. “You did, you almost took everything from me and I can’t ignore that. I can’t keep feeding whatever it is inside you that keeps insisting that everything you do is my fault. You’re sick Leo, and you need help, and I’m sorry for what’s happened to you, but you have no one here to blame for that.”

“I am sick, Dad, and it _is_ your fault because instead of loving or helping me you fucking turned on me for that fucking shitpile of wires!”

“You hurt my _son_ , Leo.”

“I’M YOUR SON!” The roar has Markus trying to move forward, make his body a wall between Carl and the wrath, but a grip to his sweater keeps him stationary. That doesn’t stop Markus from reaching out, pushing back against the heaving chest of his elder, eyes narrowing as his hand is slapped away. “Get your fucking hands off me, wirebag! You enjoying this, huh, making me beg for recognition from my own dad? You useless fucking machine.”

“You don’t speak to him, you speak to me!” Carl barks and leans forward, his own hand splaying in a gesture of peace as he pushes Markus backward, turning his head at the sound of a door sliding open behind them. Markus doesn’t need to look to know that it is Thomas, apron wet from scrubbing brushes, hair combed back in a neat brown crew cut. Handsome face, marble smooth and almost as white, near imperceptibly troubled, his android LED, an ‘O’ of lit glass on his right temple, flashing red.

Thomas strides efficiently to Carl’s front but his gaze is also hyper-focussed on Leo, who snarls at the impassive plastic mask. “Who the fuck are you?” He has no qualms about getting in the face of the newcomer, spreading his shoulders. It would not be a surprise for Leo to beat his chest in aggression. Three sets of eyes absorb his rabid behaviour.

What must it be like, Markus thinks, to be under this much scrutiny and feel such little self-control? Like an animal behind glass. Like a hairless monkey being dissected.

“I am Thomas, model AP700, employed caretaker to late artist Carl Manfred. Please do not come any closer to Mr. Manfred, sir. You are already violating both your restraining order and parole by being within fifteen-hundred feet of this premise and your younger brother.” Leo flinches at ‘brother’, nostrils dancing, looking around the android. Carl has a vice grip on Markus’ bicep. Leo drinks in the contact and Carl probably notices how his fist curls and his eyes scowl in contempt at Thomas and for a flash over to Markus, because if possible he grips tighter.

Under that scathing expression the back of Markus’ neck sears. Like under a hot cigarette. 

“Listen to me Leo!” Carl’s tone demands compliance but there is an undercurrent of a beg, a man holding back his forced hand. “Now I know your therapist sent you after me for some sort of catharsis because that’s what we discussed. And because of your lacking capacity you assumed you could just come here. Now I agree with her that if we talk, actually talk Leo, there’s a chance you can get better, but you can’t just show up at the house anymore.”

The tension is heavy enough to bow them. Markus feels weight pile on his shoulders in enormous stacking stones, ready to tip and crush him if he moves. Their lives all balancing on Leo’s next action, on his own. 

So Markus keeps still. He slows down the scene, watching a bead of sweat slip over Leo’s nose, spies the blue vestiges under Carl’s manicure, the minute blink of Thomas’ LED from red to blank. He builds each of their bodies into the room as yellow spectres and predicts how the rest of this drama might unfold. Leo lunging, Leo throwing a fist, Leo howling to be understood. Each ends in a messy splatter of tears and blood on the carpet, Thomas victorious and Carl devastated by his son’s inability to make the right choice.

Unless Leo has a gun.

So he makes one final preconstruction. His own body, twisting and ducking over his father, protecting everything vital.

There is a snort from Leo. Not so much deflating but he lets enough air out with it that his hunch and feebleness return. “Fuck this. You know the doctor didn’t fucking say we’d have an audience.” 

The rocks tumble away. Carl straightens with authority.

“Yes well, Dr. Whitman also didn’t tell you to come knocking at my door at an hour to midnight.”

“Yeah of course, I’m responsible. Typical,” Leo waves at Thomas dismissively. “Well, go on then. I’m not leaving I already came all the way over here, so get rid of ‘em so we can talk and shit.” Carl bristles.

“You don’t get to make demands here. I’m going to give Dr. Whitman a call in the morning and explain how we can make this less complicated going forward.” Carl pauses, considering. “As for tonight, I’ll make an exception and have Thomas bring us to the study, and stay with us as our… mediator.”

“What? That’s ri—“

“That’s the only way.”

“Bulls—“

“The only way, Leo. Don’t like it, then you can walk, and I’ll place a different call, one to let her know you’re not ready.The doctor can move you back a stage.” 

Leo fumes but his mouth shuts tightly, white lipped. The olive branch flexes under his fingers, near to breaking, but he agrees with another grudging snort and jerky nod. A moment of silence slips into the room before bolting as Markus clears his throat loudly. 

“Carl… would you like me to…” He’s barraged with options, the things he truly wants to ask. _Do you want me to stay with you. Help you. Keep you safe._ Instead he says what Carl would like to hear. “…Wait in the studio?” Easy and accommodating, but his eyes burn with the unspoken questions. 

Carls studies them, not ignoring, but not acknowledging either as he suggests, “Why don’t you take a walk, Markus. Bring us back some inspiration for the studio tomorrow. Everything must be beautiful in this moonlight.” 

He guesses the smile he’s given is supposed to be reassuring, and half of him, the part that is the good, obedient son, accepts it. That part also nods his head and releases his grip, claw tight, from the wheelchair handles as Thomas takes over. 

The other half really, really needs Carl to change his mind. But he doesn’t and they’re gone a minute later, hidden behind a door as Thomas leads them to their meeting place.

Carl cares about him. Carl cares about him and it’s why he’s sending him away. To protect him. The split of good son in him knows that. The wallowing half whispers that he must be inadequate. He tries to ignore it. He feels something erupting deep inside. His blood might be steam its so suddenly hot in his veins. Liquid lava bubbles in his throat as he stares down the shut wood, pacing close.

He’s not—he’s not—

[Alert! Environment Abnormality System Engagement : Program initiated due to thermal reasons, either resulting from systems overheating, or from the loss of cooling.]

[Begin venting to prevent …?]

[Y / N]

_He’s not breathing._

[Y]

Air gushes as he vents from his scapulas; his nose; his mouth. White and wet and boiling. Fans kick in, audibly, and he swallows air, tastes damp on his tongue. 

Self-induced overheating? He feels ridiculous, like he’s been caught throwing a tantrum.

_Why don’t you take a walk?_ Clearly that’s necessary if he can’t even keep his lungs working just waiting in the hall.

“Okay, Carl,” Markus agrees to himself, and strides out. Past the gilded cage for the songbirds he’d just shut down before answering the fateful ring, past the huge ornate mirror and bottom of swooping steps and into the world of monsters. 

With the worst one inside, there is nothing to fear.

 

\--------------------------

 

Markus is ‘pretty’. 

In a masculine way of course, because while he’s definitely no Wolverine, he knows he could make a convincing Tony Stark with a bit of beard. So while not rugged he’s definitely chiseled. Brown skinned with firm, thick muscles and tall, nearly six feet and destined to cross that banner with his next spurt. He’s a healthier-than-average good-looking seventeen-year-old, and that set of hyphenated text already gets him noticed enough without his name and his beacons. Blue and green irises. Not a mixture of the two, but one of each. Sapphire for the right and emerald for the left, like his gaze is literally caught between the earth and sky. 

‘Pretty’, earned by the eyes, is what’s usually used to sum him up. But ‘Markus-son-of- _the_ -Carl-Manfred’ is a close second.

Standing in the glass shelter between a large impatient suit wearing an irritable man’s face and a lady in red who clutches her purse tighter as Markus shifts in her direction, he draws his hood a bit lower. Tries not to be noticed as anything more than ‘teen-in-a-hoodie’. The 304 stop, en route to Detroit’s piers, is filled these other nobodies, all as tired and drained as the streets surrounding them, peppered with trash and dying streetlights. The skeletons of condos loom over their backs, and before them is the world’s dreariest park, trees too exhausted to flower leaves under the summers barrage of sun. Their fingers curl cruelly against the smog clogged night. 

Surprisingly, this debilitated little community is nothing more than a twenty minute sprint for Markus from the cultured estates of his neighbourhood. A drone makes its third saunter overhead, beeping and scanning. He replays it’s projected path a few times to preoccupy himself.

Usually, on nights where he doesn’t want to go home, whether it’s because Carl has guests forced upon him or because Markus is feeling flighty, he wanders the streets until he’s one of few remaining stragglers caught in the shift between late night and early morning. He enjoys finding the places in Detroit that are empty. Solitary. Where he feels like he could be the only person in the city. Or the places that are high and towering and make him feel like a king above it all, owning the noise and the lights.

Tonight the shipping grounds seem appropriate. Seeing tankers moored might help him find some kind of anchor. Markus takes slow, purposeful breaths. Feels claustrophobia closing in, clinging like wet muck that he tries to scrub from his arms as he breaks from the shelter to stand at the edge of the stop. 

People give him space, suspecting mania. If only they knew. He’s driving himself crazy with these thoughts. 

That he’ll come home and the mansion will be deserted. That he’ll no longer have a choice when he’ll want to be alone, because there won’t be anyone left to share ‘together’ with. His rational brain counters. Nothing will go wrong. Carl is competent and Thomas is present. Markus would be nothing more than a mouse in the wall if he’d remained. Leo will have disappeared by morning, and if they’re fortunate, maybe for the rest of their lives. He just needs to distract himself for long enough and stop cycling back to the worst possible scenario. 

As if to puncture his optimism a police cruiser blazes past, startling him into stepping back seconds before the bus rolls before him, first in line. The doors swing open and he is blinded. Not just by fluorescents, but a proximity alert. Overpowering and obnoxious, it’s enough to nauseate and he freezes and—

[N_ANDERSON has shared their location as a point of interest!]  


[N_ANDERSON has shared their location as a point of interest!]  


[N_ANDERSON has shared their location as a point of interest!]  


[N_ANDERSON has shared their location as a point of interest!]  


[N_ANDERSON has shared their location--]  


And—

He’s s p i r a l i n g.

He’s bleeding and crawling and there’s a mouth of a million hands and rain and [THIRIUM PUMP REGULATOR//All Systems in LOW POWER MODE//DEFECTIVE] and one’s grabbing him and connecting and he is overwhelmed and there’s a lightflashinganditiscoldwetdarkbuthecan’tshouldn’tfeelbuthedoesandhe’ss c a r e d—

Markus inhales like he’s sucking life back in, pinwheeling into the crowd behind him. Wide eyes staring at the screaming bus driver telling him to get on or eat various parts of his anatomy. He can’t really make out the specifics over the scratches of static bludgeoning him, and he can’t really see past the wall of blue text that keeps pulsing softly over his HUD. There are still fingers clawing for him. A smug face in the swarm of grey digits, form and features blotchy but clear enough under the spots to see the slow pull of an arm—their arm— and the cool glint of a black piece, and he jerks and yells and the figure is gone. The only hands are those of a good samaritan keeping him steady. Flares become lights and pops become sounds. He’s asked if he’s alright. Markus doesn’t think so. He swallows.

Just a memory. Not real. The fear feels pretty concrete though and the sensation to vomit, even though the cavern of his stomach makes it pretty much impossible. 

The message doesn’t go away. He tries to dismiss it before realizing he’s no longer being railed by some map sharing notification. Whoever that had been, they are no longer close enough to reach him. The new, tenuous connection is fizzling across his mind, not assaulting but no less urgent.

[ACOM_Serial//UNKNOWN//: Hello, North?//STUCK_DANGER//Please help!]

Bright blue like the acrylic under Carl’s nails. He can’t have been the intended recipient—the name tells him as much—but the message keeps coming, almost pleading. If he holds on tight enough, he can trace back the source. It’s a soft echo to the notification that bulldozed him. 

He puts two and two together then. This is a response— an answer to whoever had come screaming through the night, looking to reunite.

[ACOM_Serial//UNKNOWN//: Hello, North?//STUCK_DANGER//Please help!]

Is no one going to answer? They seem as though they’re in a lot of pain, or at least will be if left to their own devices. The dominoes keep falling as he figures that if he’s out of range from the original broadcast, the reply probably is as well.

[ACOM_Serial//UNKNOWN//: Hello, North?//STUCK_DANGER//Please help!]

He can’t be expected to step in. He wouldn't be of help to anyone anyway. He needs to take a moment to unpack whatever that episode was, get on even ground before he crumbles away to some abyss.

So he should just ignore it, right?

[ACOM_Serial//UNKNOWN//: Hello, North?//STUCK_DANGER//Please help!]

_Whatever you do Markus_ , he scolds himself, _you can’t keep standing here._

“—me come down there!” The driver finishes furiously and Markus gives him one last look before pulling away from the steps. 

He makes a nuisance to the other would-be passengers as he pushes through them to the intersection, not waiting for the crosswalk to flash green before rushing across it. His jog breaks into a sprint as he nears the corpses of trees that stock the park. His hood flies back with the pace but he doesn’t care. The images playing over in his head are definitely nightmares worth running from. They’re not the reason why he does. 

Markus clears a knot of bulbous roots and nears a copse of thicker trees that lead into a clearing. A single, mammoth deciduous lives within the ring, sucking its surroundings dry. 

“Hey, hey! Are you alright?” Markus calls. He should be asking himself that, chasing the plea of stranger.

In the palm of the oak, perched within its fat boughs, is a boy no older than Markus. He is wiry and chocolate haired and fair skinned. Arms swaddling what must be two hundred plus pounds of barking canine. His legs circle a branch, the only anchor as he wraps himself completely around a Saint Bernard, balancing precariously.

Markus stalls. “What are y…?”

“Stop, stop! Stop there’s a w—“

_Wolf._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So not as fluid as chapter one, and cliff hanger because I cut this in half so I could finally post something and commit. Still, I hope you all enjoyed it! Please leave a comment, whether you liked/loved/hated anything or even any grammar mistakes I will never complain if someone points out I forgot to capitalize something.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UGFAUGADUSGHGHFFFFFF THIS TOOK WAY TOO LONG.
> 
> And it is also TOO LONG T^T but hopefully you all enjoy.
> 
> I'm sorry if there are any mistakes as well. I literally had like 16 different conversations between Connor and Markus in documents that I chopped up.

Markus goes down with a cry as the animal attacks, arm substituted for his neck as knife-jaws bite. He lands on his back, bowled over by force and surprise. The lupine is tenacious, raking claws over his chest. Teeth saw into him, through skin and muscle. It bites, froths, and bites, trying to close it’s jaws and sever his limb. It is large, big-boned; though the ribs popping through it’s abdomen betray its needy stomach. Yellow eyes promise to sate that hunger.

Blue wells underneath its fangs and Markus scrambles to find purchase. His legs kick out in spasms and it’s rough enough to beat the beast away, his free hand yanking it’s mouth from his now bleeding arm. He screams in pain and rage. He gathers to his feet and backs away. 

He takes stock.

[WARNING [ ! ]: STRESS_LEVELS_RISING// 65%//]

[Damage to BIOCOMPONENT #63199a//NOT_CRITICAL//]

[All_Systems//DIVERTING_POWER//for self repair]

[All_Systems//DIVERTING_POWER//prompt_CANCELLED]

Putting the pieces together here is not complicated. Dangerous doesn’t even begin to encompass just how poor their situation is. A strange kid in a tree holding onto their large, riled dog, protecting their pet from a starving wolf, and him, on the ground, the unexpected free appetizer. He has a second to feel a bit miffed about it. To think that not even ten minutes prior his biggest worry was whether Leo had planned an encore to five years ago.

Actually, that’s still a pretty major concern. This is just more immediate.

Markus peeks up to see just how much time he is working with before ‘Snoopy’ joins the skirmish and gets a loud warning from the wolf. He glares back, teeth included.

Thousands of years of evolution make for a smart breed as the wolf assesses Markus’ undoubtedly fleshy appearance and compares it to a not quite so squishy undercoat. It can tell that he isn’t quite what he seems and that places it on the defensive. It snorts, then snorts again, trying to fight through what must be bruised gums and pain from chowing down on reinforced plastic and dense metal. Markus’ arm smarts with paper cut pain, minute but bitter.

This time when he goes to check on his would-be-damsel, Markus tries to keep his head forward, facing his furry opponent. The boy in the tree has barely any control over the dog now, its enormous body twisting as he swaddles it. Some whimpering joins the growling as the kid obviously has to squeeze fiercely to keep the animal in check. 

The wolf starts a circular dance and Markus falls into step, warily, bending his knees but keeping in mind how large a target he needs to appear. He wants the wolf to reassess that too.

“It’s a machine!” A voice calls—the boy. Markus squints. Mistakenly, he looks up in confusion.

“What?”

The beast starts forward and Markus loses ground in fear. He fumbles and near falls as he trips over a wooden box, tipping it carelessly. The wolf does not pursue, only barks him back. Shiny sharp triangles grate and a tongue pants out, hot and heavy. There is an answering snarl above Markus as he tries not to corner himself against the trunk. 

“What do you mean it’s a machine!” He shouts. 

_More importantly does that make this situation better or worse, Markus?_

“Scan it! I cracked it’s shoulder, there’s circuitry underneath! It’s not real.” 

The wolf’s head comes low between its shoulders as it growls a long threat. Markus lets his HUD come online and target and examine the creature in a blitz of pixels and numbers.

[Running//ANALYSIS//]

[ANALYSIS//Canis lupus occidentalis//: Northern timber wolf, native to parts of northwestern Canada and the United States]

There, beneath a patch of grizzled fur, Markus spies the cerulean pulse. A vibrance of electric wires that spark subtly, yet visibly as the animal pants, evidence of a polymer exoskeleton. The boy is right. It’s an imitation.

_Better or worse, Markus?_

He lets yellow ripple through the scene then, HUD constructing quickly. He creates a slowed copy of himself, the ring of deciduous worshipping the old oak, the not-animal clawing the earth. Everything becomes timeless. He considers his choices. Let the creature come near and hope he can evade. Make for the lower branches and pull himself to safety before it can slice him into a carcass. Or…

“Better,” Markus whispers to himself, reassuringly, and in perfect fullback poise, charges.

Prepared, but no doubt still somewhat surprised at the stupidity, the wolf tries to dart around him. But Markus is quick and brings his heel down as it turns. The force he exerts brings it flat on it’s side. Flesh deforms and cracks and a hundred more sparks create miniature, detonating stars in the night. He thinks the sound is reminiscent of stomping a hundred cockroaches. It’s roar is as loud as a bullhorn though, and it twists in pain. The triangle rimmed maw snaps open and closed around his ankle, like scissors, and rip a scream from his lungs, only slightly less animalistic. Markus brings a fist down. And down. And down. 

And down and down and down.

But the machine has all the tenacity of its model. The yellow eyes holds his own. Its mouth wrenches and he’s brought to his knees. Something like guilt swells in his throat. Fear that he is about to kill something. Or maybe it’s bile from the pain. His HUD crackles. 

[WARNING [ ! ]: STRESS_LEVELS_RISING// 83%//]

[Damage to BIOCOMPONENT #8427g//CRITICAL//]

[Alert! Environment Abnormality System Engagement: Program initiated due to Thirium levels reaching critical low and will default to LOW POWER MODE in 01:57:23]

[Locate Cyberlife facility to refuel Thirium levels…?]

Suddenly, a hand catches Markus’ wrist, and a white fingered palm spreads over his captors muzzle. The beast’s pelt ripples as a charge pulses from the hand, and it’s fur dissolves into similar colourless skin. 

“Sleep!” Cries the young stranger, and the wolf listens. It falls limp. 

Markus nearly collapses with it but is stabilized by those thin fingers. He stands shakily. “T-thank you,” He chokes out. Finds despite effort he can’t keep upright, and sits. 

The boy lets him; he’s spread in an awkward lunge, foot pressed backward to step on the Saint Bernard that had rushed to engage its more savage cousin once earthbound. The foot is gentle yet firm. He grabs for it’s collar. “Down Sumo! Down boy! It’s not moving anymore.” He looks to Markus, who is wheezing and bleeding. “I believe I’m the one who should be saying thank you here. My name’s Connor, and that’s my dog Sumo.” Connor extends a hand in greeting, this time smooth and flesh coloured.

“Mmh… Markus,” Markus returns, breath escaping him. 

Silvered in the moonlight and the dying fluorescents of the park, Connor appears almost unnaturally perfect. His jaw is cut in thin sharp lines, large earthy brown eyes set atop carved cheekbones. His hair is slicked back in a clean Gastbyesque sweep, but tendrils escape from their mould to frame his forehead. His mouth is wide and long, and sits relatively neutral upon his face, giving him a glassy unperturbed expression as he tilts his head at Markus. He can’t be more than fifteen.

His right temple is engraved with an ‘O’, LED spilling amber light into the night.

It is the movement of Connor’s head that betrays his neck, the wolf branding its violence in four gouges that rip through his shirt. The wound is noticeable, even beneath his jacket, as a vivid blue splatter on white. Markus gasps and raises a hand to the marks instinctively. “You’re losing blood!”

_Nevermind that you are in quite a similar predicament Markus._

“It looks worse than it is. Please don’t be alarmed. Most of my systems are still operational,” Connor lies obviously, stumbling a little as he jerks away from the hand. Sumo whines, released but no longer eager to maim and kill. Instead Sumo wanders off in determination, proceeding to scent every tree in the ring.

There is a gust of hot air that tries to cool the sweat beading over Markus’ skin but with his own injuries it stings instead of soothes. He doesn’t chase after Connor but he does frown doubtfully. “Which systems aren’t operational?”

A stillness comes over the other boy say for the flickering of eyelids—then he’s cement stiff. “Long range ACOM and network capabilities beyond immediate hotspot connections; disabled. Reconstruction protocols and sample analysis; disabled. Simulated idle protocols; disabled.” Connor sounds off like he’d read Markus’ ask as an order. He’s clearly running a check on himself. 

“Obstruction to—oh,” Connor looks up from the patch of grass his eyes were lazering with raised eyebrows. It could be a thoughtful look but it is hard to tell. The rest of his face remains placid as stone. “Thirium is not flowing to my left gyroscope since veins are diverting fluid from the area. This is to prevent additional depletion. So I may fall at some point, but getting up again will not be an issue.”

Markus puzzles over that statement. “So… you’re saying you’re seconds from collapsing?”

“I’m saying I’m fine,” Connor corrects kindly. “Self-repair functions should take care of it shortly. Do you think you would be able to stand now?”

Now that sounds almost entirely untrue. But Markus takes the proffered hand this time, and grimaces to his feet. 

[WARNING [ ! ]: STRESS_LEVELS //45%//FALLING]

[Damage to BIOCOMPONENT #63199a//NOT_CRITICAL//Initiating prompt//SELF_REPAIR]

[ Damage to BIOCOMPONENT #8427g//CRITICAL//Unit requires technician for repair. Please visit nearest Android Zone for assistance_]

[Alert! Environment Abnormality System Engagement: Program initiated due to Thirium levels reaching critical low and will default to LOW POWER MODE in 01:47:43]

[Locate Cyberlife facility to refuel Thirium levels…?]

Markus dismisses the warnings that fire off at him and switches off his HUD. “What exactly brought this thing here?”

An artificial wolf would be designed to bark and strut and play about an enclosure, simulating all the behaviours of its original. In theory trained handlers could order them about more strictly than the actual animals, telling them to ‘stop’, ‘sit, or ‘stay’. Which helped bucketloads with maintenance, but other than that they were supposed to replicate the wild as closely as possible. Markus knows as much from the detailed articles on _Cyber-Wildlife,_ when the San Diego Conservatory was the first to stock hundreds of their animal products.

“I’m not sure. I was just walking with Sumo when we were attacked. There aren’t any zoos in the area that it could have escaped from. They’re programmed with the Three Laws, so they’re supposed to be docile outside of their habitat. This one certainly seems to have…” Connor trails off uncomfortably.

“Deviated,” Markus finishes, watching Connor swallow.

“I’m not sure that that’s possible. I didn’t feel anything like… self awareness when I linked to it. I just felt scared.” He reads between the lines that Connor isn’t sure if the fear was himself or the lupine. He’s a little relieved to know Connor felt something after all.

Inactive, the wolf looks real and peaceful. _‘Where did it come from’_ is really only an iceberg tip to the questions Markus is not sure he wants answered. Was the attack a defect in its code? Or was it all part of realistic programming?

Even scarier lingers the idea that it might be, impossibly, sentient. The hole he’d widened in it’s flank is grotesque, spilling gore. Wires smashed like pulpy flesh. Uneasy, Markus turns back to Connor, not wanting to think about who the real victim is when he considers deviancy.

Sumo has returned from his pilgrimage of stench and demands attention by snuffling at Connor’s shoes. He obeys the dog by submerging a hand into the fur behind it’s neck, rubbing. Markus stares a little enviously. He’s only ever had birds to pet, given Carl’s recent lung conditions. There’s a few whispers of praise before the Saint Bernard is satiated, _’boofing’_ victoriously as it wrestles a lime ball from Connor’s jacket pocket. Sumo flops to the ground while Connor kicks glass away from his paws.

“You know, this is quite the bad neighbourhood to take such a late stroll,” Markus comments.

“I would be inclined to agree. At least that it very much seems that way.” 

Markus watches Connor jerk to the scuffed but intact box he’d stomped through earlier. A wooden milk crate. A graveyard of peppers and various fruit roll from it and mash in the dry dirt. “You’re not from around here?”

“No. We were just passing through.” He waits for Connor to elaborate but gets silence. 

Awkwardly Markus supplies, “Yeah, well me neither. I just wanted to clear my head a bit, and usually people don’t give me too much trouble. Guess animals are a different story.” The other boy begins picking through the vegetables, righting the crate. Guilt bloats through Markus as he realizes he trampled through what must have been Connor’s groceries. 

Hurriedly as his ankle allows, he helps pile flattened rye inside the crate, ears burning. He’s not ashamed enough to keep his gaze lowered though, and this close, drinks in a burst of freckles over Connor’s cheeks. Markus fixates on the LED, still burning gold. He’s been crafted really elegantly for such a young model. It makes him curious. 

More so than the wolf, where did Connor come from? He has a million and ten thoughts buzzing to life about the android. Mostly about the specifics of Connor’s manufacturing. Connor’s young—and that’s odd. _Cyberlife_ , the very same company that boasted a menagerie of robotic mammals in the present, stopped producing androids years ago. And as far as Markus remembers, there had never been a ‘teenage’ model during all the activity on their assembly line. Household workers, construction persons and military bots sure. Never a fifteen-or-something child speckled in moles that took their dog walking in trashy communities past midnight. Alone.

He knows well enough not to ask any of this however. Asking questions is a good way of getting them turned on you, and he’s not a skilled enough liar to deceive an android.

They stand, and Connor faces him seriously.

“Markus, I believe if you gave other animals a chance they would have a positive opinion of you. Sumo doesn’t seem to mind you, and you seem to be a good hearted person.”

_Wait, what?_

“What?” Markus repeats aloud, dumbly.

“Markus, I believe if you gave other animals a chance they would have a positive op—“

“No, no never mind. I got it. I got that. Um, thanks.” Is Connor being sincere? Or is this supposed to be dry wit? The delivery for the latter is a little flat, but maybe that’s just sarcasm. “I have a couple of canaries at home though and they might disagree with you. They’re constantly complaining about their living space.”

Frustration meets Markus’ joke and Connor turns away with a frown. He swears he hears a huff from the other. Then Connor looks back. “I feel I need to call the authorities.” 

He doesn’t seem to be joking. 

_Over the BIRDS?!_

“Hold on!” Markus snatches at Connor’s sleeve.

Head tipping to a perfect forty-five degree angle, the android stares expectantly. Markus’ processor catches up to his mouth as he sees Connor glance toward their lupine friend. He processes that Connor is not, in fact, going to call PETA over him pretending abuse to avians. In Markus’ defence, the topic change had been out of left field. “Y-you know, I really feel I should replace what I’ve damaged,” He excuses lamely.

Blinks come in response. “It wasn’t intentional.”

“But it still happened, and I’d hate for you to have to make another milk run just cause some jerk couldn’t watch his feet during a dog fight.” Markus slips his charming smile on, the one that calls all the snakes to beckon at the lush galas and after shows of Carl’s success. “Let me take you to the store?”

Unconvinced, but cooperative, Connor nods. He whistles to Sumo, who heaves himself to plod after them, and rests his grocery box against his hip. “Will you call someone for it?”

“Of course, but we should get out of here ourselves before it wakes up again. I get why this place is so deserted.” Snails outpace Markus as he hobbles. Connor graciously tucks under his shoulder to provide support. Speed improves marginally. “Sorry I’ve got a bit of an old man thing going on.”

“I believe that’s actually the injury to your foot. You may have to find a replacement piece for it to function properly in the future.” 

Markus can’t help it. He laughs at the helpful, honest tone. 

“Yeah, you’re bang on that mark for that one.” He may be obtuse, but Connor is endearing in how literal he is. They’ve left the clearing when Markus starts, “So where exactly sho—“

“I don’t think it was an escapee.” The shorter boy interrupts, and then barrels on to say, “I think it was being controlled.”

_Talk about a bone for a dog…_

“What makes you say that?” Markus indulges, not really peeved. He’s surprised Connor is trying to make conversation. 

And, honestly, a little pleased.

“It took a few minutes to sort through the data, but I think I got a few of it’s memories when I linked with it. Mostly nonsense, but the place it lived in, it wasn’t an enclosure. It was a cage. And it was dark.”

“Okay, but that still seems like it could be a legitimate facility. They might lock them up elsewhere before being sure they’re safe to bring out for display.”

“It’s not so much the cage, but what else was inside. It was dark but… there were people trapped in there too.” 

A disturbing, smothering quiet envelops them as Markus digests that thought. Some cold and unpleasant feeling slithers up his spine. Animals were expected to be behind bars, cruel as it was to keep them there. People on the other hand…

“Are you sure?”

“It’s what the wolf recorded. I don’t think it would be capable of fabricating prisoners.” They only make it through another copse when Markus leans too much and Connor suggests he rest a bit. He rolls his fingers in the air. “In the wolf’s code there was a series of commands. Like mission objectives. I suspect it might have been responsible for finding these people.” His LED, evermore amber, blips brightly into cerulean. “Ah, there’s a connection nearby. Perhaps I should make the call.”

“Wait, I can do it. Just give me a bit,” Markus gasps atop scruffy grass and a gnarl of root. “You should contact your family and let them know you’re okay.” 

Connor stiffens at ‘family’ but a nod comes anyway. Markus wonders if the story behind that is the same one for why Connor was unwilling to admit to pain. That same LED blips red. Hummingbird fast, but Markus catches it.

“There’s one more thing.” Connor appraises him. As if deciding something important. He opens his mouth. Stops. Then speaks again with finality, “In it’s code there was also a phrase. _’Golden_Bear’_. I think it might be a message from the person who was keeping it.”

“That sounds almost like a call sign,” Markus reasons. “But… that would be like signing your name on the murder weapon. It’s incriminating.” 

“Or possessive. Marking something that belongs to you.”

Uneasiness breeds paranoia breeds something reminiscent of adrenaline. Markus clambers to his feet. “C’mon, suddenly I don’t think there’s enough space between us and that thing back there. I’ll call while walking this time.”

Only he doesn’t get to make the call. 

He reaches in earnestness, but trips forward moments later at an earth-shredding rumble, pinning Connor against a parched trunk. 

It’s a shriek that shudders the bones, and the black of the park erupts into glossy chrome and carbon steel. A motorcycle, mounted by two riders, churns out ashy soil into foggy grey smoke as it blazes by them. Sumo lunges and barks madly, near drowned out in the noise. The bike dances in an angry circle. Markus squints against the dust, letting his HUD flare to life, shielding the other boy—

—until suddenly he’s ripped away like velcro.

There is a sizeable distance now between his feet and the earth and a tight grip about his scruff that dangles him with all the elegance of a hanged man. The expression that he turns to face very much reflects that sentiment back at him. 

Grey eyes, the colour of everything dead or on its way to greet it, shrink him down, make him feel small and inconsequential. Markus brazenly scrabbles at the hand that continues to raise him up; above an appraising man cut sharply in black. Black trench coat, collar stiff and high, black slacks and shiny black patent leather shoes. Even his hair is inky and dark. Though maybe charcoal brown compared to his ebony wardrobe. In contrast his skin is a few shades deeper than alabaster, features etched with all the rigidity of the stone—immaculate and handsome. 

And Markus’ eyes cannot possibly stretch any farther as he drinks in a face near identical to the one he just shielded. Down to the LED burned into the right temple.

“Why are you bothering him?” The man’s voice is deep yet quiet like all the corners of the night, different from Connor’s inquisitive trill. For all the cold stone of his visage, the man intones anger in each word. Like the warning hiss of a rattle.

“I’m not—“ Markus starts, refusing to be cowed. The grip snaps and shifts in a viper’s lunge, from mocking him like a scolded kitten to clamping his throat closed.

[WARNING [ ! ] ]

[External//LINK_REQUESTED//_ [ ! ]_]

[Firewall//On_STANDBY//]

[ACOM_Serial//UNKNOWN// is requesting access to internal systems_]

[//ACCESS DENIED//]

[STRESS_LEVELS_RISING//34%//]

“Nines, stop!” Connor valiantly wraps round the man’s arm, dragging it down desperately. Emotion finally transforms his face into something scared. “Nines! _Nines!_ ” The man pulls Connor away with his free hand. Like Connor’s weaker than paper. The man keeps the boy away easily. Sumo bellows, but does not attack.

[WARNING [ ! ] ]

[MALICIOUS//THREAT_DETECTED//_ [ ! ]_]

[Firewall//ENGAGED//]

[ACOM_Serial//UNKNOWN// is requesting access//ACCESS DENIED//to internal systems]

[ACOM_Serial//UNKNOWN// is overriding access//ACCESS DENIED//]

[STRESS_LEVELS_RISING//67%//]

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t need to hear the excuses of why you touched my brother, but I can guarantee it is never going to happen again,” The man promises. Markus believes him, feeling his tracheal vent starting to buckle. He has to remind himself he doesn't need to breathe, just ventilate. 

It makes being choked no less terrifying. 

Markus flashes back to the bus and the hands and the lip of the gun. It had been easy to let those memories dissipate during his brief flight and fight. But now they are pooling back into his mind, congealing into stains across his conscious, thick and messy and ugly. 

[WARNING [ ! ] ]

[MALICIOUS//THREAT_DETECTED//_ [ ! ]_]

[Firewall//UNDER_ASSAULT//]

[ACOM_Serial//UNKNOWN// is overriding access//ACCESS DENIED//to internal systems]

[STRESS_LEVELS_RISING//91%//]

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” A deep timbre, echoing, joins the triumvirate of panic. ”Fucking stop! Stop! Stop you ass sucking toaster!” Helmeted and thickset, the latest man brings a worn Chelsea down hard on the back of the man-in-black’s knee. It breaks his murderous trance; the man falls to a kneel and Markus is freed.

All Markus can see is grey as he lands, laying petrified against scourged grass. Grey viper eyes and fireworks of red alerts. And maybe the empty, wide mouth of a weapon. 

Connor is above him then. Face almost blank again but Markus can see turmoil roiling in brown irises. And he’s reeled from the sinkhole of thoughts into that earthy, gentle colour. 

“Markus? Is anything damaged?” 

“No, nothing major,” Markus admits slowly. “Just a lot of… messages.”

“Gavin.” The man-in-black hisses. 

“ _Nines_.” The motorcycle-man mocks back. He gestures wildly. ”First of all, did you forget to charge your batteries tonight or what? Last I remember, cops aren’t exempt from committing _fucking murder_!”

Connor has placed himself squarely between the long, dark body and Markus. “You had no right to touch him, Nines.”

“You claimed you were attacked.” 

“I said I was attacked by an animal.”

The gaze that levels with Markus is cool as he raises to sitting. It says _’I see no difference’_. 

Aloud, the man defends himself. “I assumed you were being figurative.” No sympathy makes itself known in the man’s eyes as he says, “I apologize as it appears I was mislead and acted upon false information.” The short, stocky man scoffs within his helmet. 

“Yeah, yeah. Because you never make mistakes.” The helmeted-man’s head rolls, probably the same way his eyes do. 

Connor looks pointedly again at his almost-twin. “You came much sooner than expected.” He gets a shrug in reply, but from the man-in-black’s more expressive counterpart.

“No shit! This was the last area Nines could find you in—before your GPS kicked out, that is. Anderson’s been circling the block scouring for you too,” The man explains. Sumo, forgotten, startles him with a whine, pressing against his side. Clearly familiar. The begging earns a pat, and he continues with a groan. “You fucking owe me a new back. And neck. Riding with the Terminator is like riding with the world’s shittiest, heaviest, stiffest God damn iron koala. You know next time you want to get a little freaky with a boyfriend, leave the dog behind, and a note, would’ya?”

Both ‘Connor’s’ snap stiff at ‘boyfriend’, and a little incredulity bleeds into grey eyes as they glance at Markus and back to the original Connor. “You’re dating… this?” As if he could never fathom Connor stooping to someone like Markus. Markus bristles, bringing fingers to stroke at a beaten throat.

“I said I was attacked!” Connor snaps in his passionless, passionate tone. Then, Connor has Markus’ raised hand between his own, tugging him up. Both Markus' mind and legs are still jello though, and Connor supports him stoutly as he tips over. As Markus stumbles, his vision glitches. 

“Wait a second, is that blood? Fuck, fuck, it is. What’s wrong with you?” 

“I’m okay,” Connor dismisses.

“Oh bullshit, there’s literally blood everywhere!”

“Connor, you need to report any damage to us immediately.” The almost-twin chimes in.

“I’m okay! It’s mostly Markus’.” The boy insists.

“Markus…? Is that—is he an android? But he’s too young!” A few thumps later and a sleek visor obstructs Markus’ vision, gripping the back of his head, turning it thisway and thataway. Markus’ eyelids flicker tellingly, along with the blue gushing forth. “Oh shit. And of course he has a face handcrafted only by fucking _Michaelangelo_.” 

The visor stomps out of sight. “You’d better pray this kid has a damn good warranty Nines.”

“…I believe you mean insurance, Gavin.”

“This isn’t from Nines. We were assaulted by a _Cyberlife_ creature,” Connor clarifies. 

“Pheck.” The curse gets caught in the man’s throat as the helmet comes off finally, to reveal a bullish expression. Dark haired. A ragged shadow of beard. Exhausted. Soft-shade green eyes are the only gentle thing about this man, personality punctuated by evidence of a scar slicing over his nose. “Hey buddy, Markus? Listen to me. The names Gavin Reed; Detective with the Detroit Police Department.” Gavin reaches into his jacket to pull out a wallet, giving a cursory flick of his credentials. “Do you need me to send out for an SOSR?”

“No,” Markus spits. Quickly. It’s the speed of answer that sows doubt, and Gavin indeed does look doubtful, but he seems to accept.

Gavin points. “This is my partner, Nines. He gets a little keen when it comes to ‘keeping the peace’. Now, what the Hell kind of animal did that—“ He lifts his chin and waves at his neck. “— to the two of you?”

Connor tells them, succinctly, about his trip through the park, Markus coming to his aide and the wolf of wires and it’s jarring reverie. Markus offers nothing about why he is here and he isn’t asked. Gavin shakes his head. “That clearing was empty when we made our way through it. Shit, what kind of douchebag is using a wolf for their dirty work? How is that even possible with _Cyberlife_ coding?”

“It’s doable but massively inefficient. Manipulating an android would make more sense logically, if it were possible anymore.” Nines’ face, now that he is not set about ripping throats out, seems to rest as passively as Connor’s. Maybe more so. His eyes, however, are searing. His words are ice. “The only real purpose to controlling an animal would be for security.”

“Yeah, definitely not for roundup.”

“Certainly.”

“And _’Golden_Bear’_? Definitely doesn’t seem like any of the nasties we’ve dealt with before. This might even be a new ring.” 

“Ring?” Connor interjects. He still holds Markus, and Markus still simmers under a storm-born gaze, but ignores it. He’s interested too, and perhaps a little worried.

“Traffic ring, obviously,” Gavin starts, then seems to realize who he is talking to. “You know what you nosey shit, it’s not important. You’ve done your job and reported Mr. Fur-Real. Let’s get the both of you home.”

“But—“

“Home, Connor! Before Nines has the chance to get his She-Ra back on. Now, shut the fuck up.” Gavin snaps his fingers at Nines, who grabs at Sumo’s collar as the dog tries to pad off. “Hey, where about’s Anderson?”

“Do not snap at me Gavin.”

“Holy f—look can you just tell me where the fuck he is? Unlike you, I need to sleep sometime tonight.”

Nines looks at Gavin; dead on; for several seconds; then looks away. Blatantly dismissing him.

“…Are you getting pissy with me?” As Nines turns bodily away from him Gavin erupts into a one-sided argument.

Connor sighs beside him and Markus looks to see him staring forlornly at the food making battered salad in cotton-dry earth. Dropped and dismembered yet again, this time with no survivors. “I guess I’m not going to be able to help you with that after all Connor.”

“It’s fine.”

“No it’s not. I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Why?” 

“Well,” Markus can’t go very far from those eyes when he’s practically wrapped around Connor. He makes a valiant but fruitless effort anyway. “I mean, I know it’s going to sound crazy, but I kind of needed this.”

“I’m not sure I’m following. Do you enjoy battery Markus?”

_Of course he would go there_.

“No! It’s just,” Markus grimaces. “I needed to get away from something, and now that this is over, I think it was a pretty good distraction after all.”

“Oh. I’m glad I could be a distraction for your problems then.” 

Although Connor sounds pleased, Markus isn’t when he thinks how he’s reduced Connor to something so trivial. Distraction? Fleeting amusement? That’s something like fireworks. Dazzling lights. Fizzling in and out. 

He doubts tonight’s a memory that will ever fade.

_But how do you articulate that to a stranger without seeming like a creep?_

“That’s not—ugh. Look, Connor,” Markus fumbles. Wonders why this is so difficult when Connor is so unassuming. Spinning words should come easily but he’s spilling nothing but straw thoughts. “You’re a nice kid, alright? And forget what I said about being a distraction. You were… are, a lot more than that.”

A dimple crooks a smile on Connor’s cheek; small, shy and awkward, as though unprepared for the movement. It puts a chip in the collected mask all the same. Especially when the hand pulling Markus’ arm over thin shoulders comes to squeeze Markus’ own gently. “It was great to meet you, Markus.” 

Heat blooms everywhere. His hand, his cheeks, every place they connect. Every place they don’t. “Same here.“ Markus grips tight, skin pressing white. 

Like every act this night, it is interrupted. 

“C’mere man, you’re coming with me.” Gavin barges between, argument finale unknown, to heave Markus away. “Now, you’re absolutely sure you don’t need to go to a facility?”

“Hundred percent.” Markus nods quickly.

“Perfect. Just so you’re in the loop and all, it’s going on my report that you’re declining first-aid. I’ll give you my numbers and you can send your account about tonight to the station when you’ve taken care of your injuries.” He shrugs Markus higher on his shoulder. “Where do you live?”

“Uh,” Markus tries to catch Connor’s gaze but there is a wall of clothed black between him and the other and Gavin already has them moving away. He has to look where he is going to avoid toppling them over. “Um, why?”

“I’m taking you home. Police escort for a wounded citizen.” Gavin’s tone comes clipped. Tired. “So, where?”

“Close by, only about fifteen minutes. The ‘Mondale' apartment complex.”

“Wonderful.”

Everything is not so wonderful getting both of them on the motorcycle. Markus is impressed that Nines managed to fit at all behind Gavin on the sleek YAMAHA. It’s large for an adventure bike but two people, both thick with muscle, Gavin broad but shorter, with Markus being slighter but longer, barely can scrunch together on the leather seat. Markus is practically painted across the detective’s back, helmet shoved over his head. “I know you have steel plating and all, but I’m a cop and you’re a civilian, so we have try to follow some rules.”

“Is this safe?”

“You’re not allowed to ask that when you’re the one wearing the only protection.” Gavin pulls sunglasses from his jacket.

Ripping through the city in a fugue of neon and traffic lights, Markus somehow plasters closer. Gavin drives with personality. His own personality. Which from their short time together, is risky, risqué, and brash. They run a light, pass a car in a singles only lane, and almost kiss the curb turning a corner. And they’re still many long minutes away from the address Markus gave. He tries to keep his eyes open, feel the exhilaration, but alone with his thoughts he can only feel phantom teeth on his ankle. The pain of watching Leo smirk his way into Carl’s home. Again.

The gun.

_Think of something else!_

As his eyes squeeze closed, Markus’ mind calls back to Connor. The wrap of fingers over his own, milky white. 

The swift pass of a series of numbers.

[Would you like to exchange your Serial_? with ACOM_Serial//UNKNOWN//?]

[Y]

[ACOM_//Markus//UNKNOWN//: 684 842 971]

[ACOM_Serial//UNKNOWN//: 313 248 317 - 51]

[Serial Saved_]

[IMPORTANT [ ! ] Unable to update model type for contact 313 248 317 - 51[Connor] as //MODEL_TYPE//UNKNOWN//]

[ACOM_//Connor//UNKNOWN//: Have a good night_]

The thing about mind links, or interfacing, as Markus had performed earlier, is that they are more two-way radio than direct download. Even if certain information is desired, a lot of noise gets pulled along in the exchange. Although, that rule usually applied specifically to other androids sentient enough to parse the data coming back to them. Regular machines would just keep a log of the contact, and automatically dump the rest.

He hadn’t gotten much out of Connor with such short contact. Sparks of zeroes and ones of his complex code. An absent list of food items. Leftover trepidation from the beast they’d scrabbled with. 

That brings on a thought. 

And that thought brings on a frown. 

“Detective Reed! I have something important to tell you!” Markus jerks forward to shout.

“PHECK!” They skim a postbox and very nearly scrape themselves off alley brick walls as Gavin cuts through a shortcut. “What the fuck?”

When they’re standing in front of drab plaster blocked units, Gavin tensely kicking the bike into a stand, Markus clambers off anxiously, pulling free a sweat soaked head. The speed had done nothing to alleviate the scorching Detroit air, other than make Markus feel like laundry blasted with a hair dryer. “Connor interfaced with the wolf!”

“What?”

“Connor interfaced with the wolf. He connected to it which is why he could see what it saw before. But if the animal we fought off earlier was some jailbroken, four-legged drone, then it maybe no longer qualifies as a simple machine.”

He can tell Gavin is controlling every part of his facial muscles to keep from crying to the heavens. “Okay. That’s great. Why don’t I give you my information, and you can pop everything to me in a nice, long email. And I promise I’ll read it. Tomorrow.”

“You don’t understand!”

“No, I don’t,” Gavin moans. Markus squares himself up.

“Listen! This is crucial. Everything it saw was recorded. If it was being monitored that means someone on the other side—“

“Yes, someone on the other side, probably a real shitty bastard, is doing some real shitty bad things.” Gavin jerks the helmet from Markus, giving the inside a quick rub with his elbow before tugging it on. He starts digging through pockets with agitation. “Believe it or not, I have dealt with this kind of thing before. By law, we’re also obligated to look into this further. Just not. Right. Now. Okay?”

“But—“

“Do you need help getting inside?”

“No, just—“

“Great!” A large glove slaps to Markus’ chest, pinning several bills and a crumpled card. “Email. Tomorrow.” The bike screams to life. Gavin nods to the cash. “That’s from my partner. For the whole, misunderstanding. Thing.” Markus squints back at him incredulously. 

With a two fingered salute, Gavin revs off, abandoning him in front of the building. Stewing in anxiety that threatens to boil over and cauterize him whole. 

Markus glances back to his fictitious address wearily. Slats of apartments stack on top of each other like crumbling lego pieces. The lobby glass, cracked, has stripes of iron barring it from the outside. A total inversion from the manicured, sprawling lawn of Carl’s estate with its rustic, homey rose bricks and large windows. Gavin hadn’t blinked at leaving him here. Guess he was a pretty seasoned cop.

His HUD is screeching at him about low Thirium, and he collapses in frustration against a pole, letting his head bang back with a _’thunk’_. “Dammit’.” 

If Connor had opened a feed to put the machine down, he’d technically exposed his own programming back. Maybe even some of his own memories.

_If that thing gets back to it’s owner, and it’s owner is some kind of collector that hacks code, and it sees someone like Connor on the other side, what do you think is going to happen Markus?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you come across any mistakes or anything that doesn't make sense. And I'm terribly sorry for the delay, and how long this is, and I think I probably could have cut it in half but then it might have taken another age and a day and I just wanted to publish something and stop bothering the lovely people at the coffee shop I write at.
> 
> I love comments and anonymous commenting is enabled so if you want to critique, please feel free to leave a note!

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave me a note (what you liked, was it boring/cluttered??? more talking, more doing, more thinking???) and remember that kudos are free! :) Thanks for reading!


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